Page 70 of Star Claimed Omega
‘You’re hurt,’ she said, moving toward him in alarm. ‘Santi, that looks awful. What happened?’
He blinked down at his front as if noticing the red stains all over his gear for the first time. ‘It’ll heal. There was a breach of the bridge.’
Her brow rose.
‘I thought I heard a massive bang. I think it’s best to sit down,’ she murmured, helping him to a chair at the table. ‘Let me clean you up.’
His face was pale under his tan, and sweat dampened the back of his neck.
He fell back into the seat, shoulders slumping, every inch of his war-forged body now heavy as adrenaline wore off.
The throbbing potency of hislycanaetheric power was weak, muted within him, having been drained by the battle on the bridge.
Soleil didn’t ask more. She just moved.
She brought him water from the kitchen, her fingers brushing his as he took it.
He drank, taking his time, his eyes on her, his lashes low.
Then she turned, found the med kit tucked in one of his drawers.
His eyes tracked her with mild amazement; she seemed to know every nook of his house intimately, and it felt as though she had always belonged in it.
She knelt beside him, working in silence.
His eyes traced her features as she administered care from soft, sterile wipes to clean the lacerations.
The hiss of a healing synth-device sounded as she waved it over the worst of the wounds.
Her touch was deft, efficient, and tender.
He didn’t say a word, as his eyes lingered on her, lips parted, his body torn between exhaustion and the ache swelling in his chest.
She worked on him, muttering curses at his worst injuries with such gentle ferocity that it brought a sting to his eyes.
When she finished, she set the device down and glanced up, her hazel gaze shining with concern. ‘There,’ she whispered. ‘You OK?’
‘Never been better,’ he rasped.
Fokk,she was sunshine, he thought as his entire soul and lycan spirit leaped within him.
She was becoming the reason for his every breath.
SOLEIL
The candles flickered between them, casting long shadows on the polished table.
Soleil pushed back her hair from her face, cheeks pink from the oven’s warmth, as she retrieved her pie.
She brought it to the table, where Santi was now settled, showered and patched up, and sat across from her, his broad shoulders relaxed, his sinewed muscles encased in a black tee.
He arched a brow at the flan.
‘Pepper seared steak pie, roasted root vegetables with aromatic spices, and a tangy herb salad,’ she announced. ‘Plus fresh bread buns and butter to accompany it.’
He gave her a half smile. ‘Delectable.’
Wait till you taste it first,’ she warned, waggling a finger.
